


Hot, Sticky Sweet

by Faylette



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Campfires, Dating, Falling In Love, Horseback Riding, Implied/Referenced Underage Drinking, Inappropriate use of a cowboy hat, Keith with a guitar, Lapdance, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, Picnics, Shiro dances to dad rock you can't change my mind, Shiro getting serenaded, Strip Tease, Stripper Shiro (Voltron), Strippers & Strip Clubs, Yeehaw AU, farmer keith
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-26
Updated: 2018-10-01
Packaged: 2019-06-16 18:21:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15443037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Faylette/pseuds/Faylette
Summary: Keith’s friends only said they were going to take him out drinking for his 21st birthday. They purposefully left out the part about that drinking taking place at the strip club one town over. They also failed to mention the ridiculously oversized, glittery abomination of a cowboy hat with “I JUST TURNED 21” sequined along the brim they had acquired, and how they were going to force him to wear it for the night.Shiro gives Keith a lapdance for his birthday. That's about it.Actually, I lied. This is where all my Yeehaw AU fic will go, fluff and smut and everything in between.





	1. Hot, Sticky Sweet

**Author's Note:**

> This was fun to write. Everyone is above the minimum drinking age, I dunno, don't ask me how.
> 
> Inspired by and based on [toouloo's](http://tofuloo.tumblr.com/) amazingly heartwarming Yeehaw AU.

Keith’s friends only said they were going to take him out drinking for his 21st birthday. They purposefully left out the part about that drinking taking place at the strip club one town over. They also failed to mention the ridiculously oversized, glittery abomination of a cowboy hat with “I JUST TURNED 21” sequined along the brim they had acquired, and how they were going to force him to wear it for the night.

              “Hey, we didn’t lie,” insists Lance, sporting a big shit-eating grin as he hands Keith a shot of tequila. “See? Drinking!”

              “Thanks,” Keith grumbles. “Jackass.”

              Someone in the group yells out “Happy birthday!” as Keith’s trying to get some salt to stick to the back of his hand, and after his friends echo “Happy birthday” in a chorus, Keith rushes to lick off the salt, down the shot, and bite into his slice of lime as they all do. As the burn of the tequila down his throat mixes with the sour-sweetness of the lime, he hears Lance calling for another round.

              A few drinks later and Keith has a nice buzz going. He doesn’t have to worry that much about getting steamrolled by his alcohol intake and making a huge jackass of himself. Nah, he already got that over and done with when he was 17, when he got so wasted he punched a guy because he wouldn’t stop looking at him.

              It was himself. He punched a mirror. He ended up at the hospital with stitches.

              No, he’s just had enough to loosen up. A bit. Enough to warm up a little to his current festive captivity, at least. As he takes a swig from his beer bottle, he surveys the three dancers on stage. There’s one in a Chippendale-like getup and another with every part of a cop’s uniform except for the pants, and both are clearly busy engaging with the patrons in their vicinity, trying to entice or sucker them out of their money. All the third one has is a g-string, a pair of stiletto heels, and a smoking hot bod. He catches Keith’s attention and, with good reason, keeps it.

              The first things Keith notices, and that he’d have a hard time not noticing, are the stripper’s white-as-snow hair, and a shiny, metallic arm. A prosthetic, and a pretty high-tech one at that, judging from the ease he has gripping onto the pole he’s currently working. He’s tall, maybe taller than Keith, though it’s hard to judge with this setup, and, _Lord Almighty,_ he’s sculpted like a Greek god. A Greek god in a tiny black g-string, spinning upside-down around the pole and making Keith dizzy as he tries to drink in every little inch of this man’s incredible body. Coming out of the spin and setting himself right-side up, back against the pole, he dips down low, legs spread wide apart, the muscles of his thick thighs deliciously prominent as they become parallel to the stage. Keith gulps.

              Their eyes meet and, after giving Keith a curious look, the man winks. Keith’s grip on his beer bottle tightens, as does his rib cage around his lungs when the dancer starts walking towards him. _Right_ towards him.

              “Howdy,” he says to Keith, his tone playful.

              “Hi,” Keith says sheepishly, clearing his throat as he tries to maintain eye contact. It’s rude to not look someone in the face when they’re talking to you, even if they’re nearly naked and their chest is this broad and they got a six-pack you just wanna lick pudding off of.

              The dancer makes things a bit easier on Keith by taking a seat at the edge of the stage. In this dim light, it’s the first time Keith notices the scars like crisscrosses all over his body, and the one large one straight across his nose. He wonders where they’re all from. He wonders what it’d feel like to run his fingers over them.

              “So,” the dancer starts conversationally, pointing just above Keith’s brow. “It’s your birthday, huh?”

              Keith groans internally. The hat, _the goddamn hat._ “Y-Yeah.”

              “Well, happy birthday,” he says, with a soft laugh as thick as honey. “What’s your name, sugar?”

              “Keith.”

              “Keith,” he echoes back, and hearing his name in this guy’s voice is almost enough to make Keith’s spine leap out of his skin. “I’m Shiro.”

              Keith makes some kind of unintelligible noise before automatically holding his hand out. Before he can realize just what the hell he’s doing and before he can pull his hand back, Shiro happily takes hold of it, giving it a firm shake.

              “Pleasure to meet you too.”

              Shiro’s prosthetic hand is cold and smooth to the touch. Keith has to remind himself to let go.

              “Now, correct me if I’m wrong, but I think you were checking me out,” says Shiro, deepening the blush on Keith’s face. “So, would you like a dance, Keith?”

              Oh, yes, would he.

              “Um, yeah, okay,” he stutters. “Uh, how much is it?” He starts fumbling for his wallet, nerves over intoxication making the simple task difficult, though he’d much rather blame the other for it. Before he can actually manage to get any cash out, he feels a hand resting on his forearm, stopping him. He looks up.

              “This one’s on the house,” says Shiro. “It’s your birthday, after all.”

              Someone grabs Keith’s beer as Shiro helps him up unto the stage, spurring on a raucous round of cheers and hoots and whistles from the birthday party. Apparently prepared for this precise situation, someone comes out from behind the stage to set down a plush red armchair at its centre. Shiro leads Keith to sit in it, then makes a couple quick signals at the DJ off to the side. The song currently playing fades out and, in a couple more seconds, a new one starts up.

              _Step inside, walk this way, you and me babe, hey hey!_

              The guitar riff and drumbeats start blasting out of the club speakers. One hand on Keith’s shoulder, Shiro leisurely struts counterclockwise around the chair. His fingers trail from one shoulder to the other as he walks, giving Keith an involuntary shiver as they graze over his nape, sneaking in just over his shirt collar. Shiro ducks low as he circles around Keith’s opposite side, hands on Keith’s thighs to hold him up as he bends down, giving Keith a warm smile with dark, sparkling eyes as he lingers with them face to face.

              Hoo boy, did it just get hot in here.

              And he can almost hear the cartoony glass thermometer shatter when Shiro spins around, bends over, and starts shaking his firm, round ass directly in front of him. The crowd explodes into whoops and cheers, with some people obviously trying to be louder than the rest, drowning out the Def Leppard lyrics. Shiro backs up closer to Keith, wedging his never-still booty between his knees, and then he’s grinding against what little free space remains between his barely-covered behind and the rather strained crotch of Keith’s jeans. He gives Keith a quick smile over his shoulder before giving one of his cheeks a sharp spank, and if it’s true that all of the meaningful moments of your life flash before your eyes before you die this instant is definitely going to be one of them.

              A contradictory combination of “this is all going so fast” and “oh, now we’re getting somewhere” rushes through Keith’s thoughts as Shiro puts the lap in lap dance, turning around and moving in to straddle Keith on the chair. The tight space crowds their limbs together so Keith can feel the pressure of Shiro’s strapping thighs squeeze around his own and _God_ he wouldn’t have it any other way. He watches, starstruck and slack-jawed, his arms glued straight to his sides, as Shiro gyrates his hips and runs his hands all over his own body, combing his fingers through his hair and leading them all the way down to his g-string, fingertips ghosting over the bulge beneath the satiny-sleek fabric there.

              Shiro leans in close to Keith’s ear, close enough for him to be heard over the deafening din around them, close enough for Keith to feel his breath on his skin.

              “You wanna grab my ass, Keith?”

              Keith’s eyes go wide. Wider.

              “I... Am I allowed to?”

              Shiro lets out a giggle, the sound a perfect blend of rough and cute that Keith didn’t even think possible.

              “Only if I like you.”

              With that, Shiro peels Keith’s arms away from his sides, slides his hands down until he has him by the wrists, a grip he uses to put Keith’s hands squarely on his ass. There’s a good deal to grab, as Keith was already well aware, and it has a firmness with just enough give to make getting to feel it a near-religious experience. In this moment, Keith is convinced that he was put on this Earth solely to have this marvel of a bubble butt in his hands.

              _You got the peaches, I got the cream, sweet to taste, saccharine_ blares out of the speakers. A familiar voice in the crowd screams “YEEHAW, KEITH, GET SOME OF THAT MAN MEAT” and it all sounds so far away with his heart pumping like wild in his ears.

              Shiro keeps dancing in his lap, and all the while Keith’s fingers knead into those cheeks almost of their own volition. At the song’s climax, Shiro arches over backwards, hands on the floor, and thrusts his hips up into the air to the beat of the words — _Pour some sugar on me, pour your sugar on me._

              Oh Lordy, does Keith just want to take this man home for the night and then cook up a big, hearty farmer’s breakfast for him in the morning.

              Shiro snaps back up as the song ends and the audience cheers and applauds. As he gets up from the chair, he says huskily into Keith’s ear, “Happy birthday, cowboy.”

              He winks as he turns to walk away, leaving Keith with the sight of his ripped back and perfect ass in motion, before he’s gone behind the thick velvet curtains.

              Like waking up from a dream that’s still fresh on the mind, Keith stands and stumbles down off the stage, back into the overexcited clutches of his inebriated friends. They pat him on the back and heckle and grill him about the experience, and all fight over who gets to buy drinks for the birthday boy next now that he’s been made into a birthday man. He ends up sipping on a colourful, fruity drink with a little umbrella in the glass while munching on one of the cupcakes Hunk baked for the occasion, his eyes never straying from the stage when Shiro’s back on it.

              Keith’s going to have to come back here.

              By himself next time.

              And with a way less stupid hat.


	2. On a Steel Horse I Ride

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't let this AU go.
> 
> With tons of love to [toouloo](http://tofuloo.tumblr.com/) for sharing the precious treasure of the Yeehaw AU with the world, and letting the rest of us participate in it like this. <3

              “Hey, Shiro,” his coworker in assless black leather chaps calls out as he enters the dressing room. “Your favourite customer’s back.”

              Shiro can’t stop himself from grinning as he finishes tying the white kerchief around his neck. Sure, he entirely expected Keith to be here tonight, after he’s been coming to the club religiously every Friday night with a wad of bills destined for Shiro’s g-strings, but just knowing that he’s actually present is always a highlight of Shiro’s week. Honest to God, it makes him downright giddy for a moment, even though it’s no longer the only chance he’s had to cross paths with Keith.

              He supposed it was just a matter of time before he’d run into Keith, what with the ratio of the town’s population to the number of places he works during the weekdays as a gardener. Shiro was trimming the hedges around the gates at the Holts’ farm when he noticed a not entirely unfamiliar man in front of the ranch across the road, loading some stuff into his truck. They shared a neighbourly wave and he had meant to introduce himself, but then Colleen Holt invited him in to sit down for lunch with the family. When Shiro got back to work, the man and the truck were gone. Shiro didn’t think much of him beyond that, until he was looking at eggs at the farmers’ market, spoke to the seller, and ended up face to face with a face he had _definitely_ twerked right in front of. They stared for a moment at each other from opposite sides of the folded-out table, until Shiro bought a dozen eggs with the bills that had a high probability of being some of the many that this farmer generously tucked into his underwear in the first place.

              Shiro thought, a little sadly, that things had gotten too awkward at that point for Keith to keep showing up to see him dance. He was overjoyed to be proven wrong.

              It’s cowboy night, and Shiro’s dressed to fit the part: plaid shirt, blue jeans, big belt buckle, leather boots, the white kerchief he spent way too long trying to get just right, and some things still unseen for fun later.

              Shiro walks out onto the main floor of the club, the music turning to a dull thumping to a clearer thumping with a melody and lyrics mixed in. Scanning the room as he steps lively through the crowd, giving a friendly smile and “howdy” to everyone he passes, he spots him. Keith has claimed a seat front and centre of the main stage, ready for the show well before it’s begun. Shiro doesn’t want to get his ego overinflated thinking that it’s because Keith wants the best seat in the house just to see _him_ on stage but, hey, it’s true, ain’t it? Case in point, Keith’s just sitting there and drinking a beer, not giving much heed to the dancers and patrons around him. He’s waiting so, so patiently.

              And, oh boy, how his face lights up when he catches Shiro walking towards him, just like a kid on Christmas morning, seeing the big present he gets to unwrap. Well, it won’t be Keith doing the unwrapping, but Shiro wouldn’t mind it that way one bit.

              “Hey there,” says Shiro.

              “Howdy.”

              Casual formalities out of the way, Shiro happily sits down in what has become his usual seat in the club: across Keith’s lap. The Santa analogy gets pretty muddled when Shiro drapes an arm over Keith’s shoulders, and in turn gets Keith’s arm around his waist, hand at his hip. Keith has the best seat in the club and, for now, so does Shiro.

              Keith asks him how his week’s been, then hangs onto Shiro’s every word as he regales him with tales of the overgrown gardens he’s tamed and the storefronts he’s brightened up with flowers and climbing ivy.

              The show starts, and the first dancer comes up onto the stage. Shiro and Keith’s conversation continues as it was.

              “Coran’s looks like a whole new general store,” says Keith, sincerity flowing from his voice and bright expression. “You did a swell job.”

              Shiro’s heart gets all fluttery with his praise, but he retains his composure. “You’re too sweet.” He leans closer, laces the fingers of his hands together to have his arms wrapped around him. “But enough about me. Tell me about the farm — I want to hear everything.”

              He tells Shiro about all the hens, about how Tillie, the chicken who got her foot stuck in some wire, is doing so much better, and how Mabel laid her first egg, and how Gertrude’s been mighty ornery ever since he found her stash of shiny bits and baubles, more like a crow than a chicken, that one. Shiro delights in all the stories, the cute and the heartwarming and banal, though sometimes he can’t help his focus wandering from Keith’s words to the enthusiastic sparkle in his eyes as he shares his animals’ quirks and milestones and general going-ons. He can see how much he cares for them all, and that just makes him all the more attractive. And, yeah, he’s already pretty damn attractive by default.

              Shiro’s playing with fire here, getting this attached. He doesn’t even know if he cares if he gets burned or not.

              “So, since you’re the expert here, what’s your verdict?” asks Shiro, gesturing at his outfit. “Do I look like a real cowboy?”

              “Sure do.” Keith nods. “Reckon I could have you as a hired hand at the farm.”

              “Is that an invitation, Keith?”

              Keith’s pretty purple eyes open wide as his pretty face turns red. “W-Well, sure,” he says. “You’re always welcome to visit.”

              Shiro gives him his absolute sweetest smile, with absolute ease. “I just may have to take you up on that offer.”

              Keith’s gotten a lot more confident since his first, apparently forced visit, but getting the boy flustered is a real guilty pleasure for Shiro. And it mustn’t be something Keith minds all that much, what with him coming back again and again.

On the whole, Shiro likes his work, and save for the occasional grabby drunkard and out of control bachelorette party, Shiro likes his customers. In his time here, he’s become exceptionally skilled at giving customers what they need, whether it’s making a shy but curious newcomer welcome and comfortable, or giving the rowdier crowd the good time they’ve become accustomed to. He’s good at taking off one mask and putting on another instantly, changing everything from his tone of voice to the way he carries himself and the expression he keeps to make his customer leave satisfied (and leave their money behind). Keith... Keith is something else. He’s easy to talk to, easy to be with. It doesn’t feel so much like work with him, not until Keith pays him, and pays him damn well, for it. Shiro has to keep himself from reading too much into things; work is still work.

              But Keith makes it nice to imagine otherwise.

              The current dancer, his striptease over, makes his rounds along the edge of the stage, letting whoever’s willing slip a bill or two into the waistband of his Texas state flag booty shorts. The announcer starts sending him off. It’s Shiro’s cue.

              “Well, time for me to mosey,” says Shiro, tipping his hat. Or rather, he tries to, and instead gets that same sinking panic you get when you miss a step down the stairs. “Oh—oh no.”

              “What’s wrong?”

              “Forgot my hat.” Shiro grimaces. “I don’t have time to go backstage and get it.”

              “Take mine,” Keith says without a second’s hesitation, pulling off his hat, revealing the somewhat tousled hair beneath it. He’s never seen Keith without a hat before.

              “You sure?”

              “Yes,” Keith insists. “Take it.”

              Shiro does, and not just because it’s his only option, but also because this is the closest approximation in his adult life that he’s ever had to the feeling you get when the boy you’re crushing on lets you borrow his crayons. And it’s a nice hat, Shiro can tell, not that he knows jack about cowboy hats. But he can tell its quality is leagues above the one he did his rehearsals with, the one he’s now pretty happy about forgetting. He’s probably not going to get the chance to pocket it, hats being a lot harder to stash away than crayons, but he’s damn well going to enjoy his time with it.

              “You’re a gentleman and a lifesaver,” he gushes, putting Keith’s hat on, remembering to slyly add, “I’ll have to repay you later.”

              “Go,” Keith encourages, his voice like a stage whisper, giving Shiro a soft little push to send him on his way.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” says the announcer as Shiro gets up on the platform, “please give a warm show of Southern hospitality for our next dancer, a cowboy who knows a thing or two about gettin’ _rough and wild_ — Shiro!”

Thumbs hooked into his belt loops, Shiro moves in a slow swagger to the centre of the stage, his head held high like he’s gazing out to the horizon of his pastures, rather than a sea of drunk and horny men and women. Not that he doesn’t appreciate their presence — it’s a matter of getting into character. He acknowledges the crowd with a tip of his, or rather not his, hat, and gets a rush of whistles and hoots. Keith, his hands cupped around his mouth, shouts out “Yeah, Shiro, woo!” and it’s music to Shiro’s ears.

              Then the real music turns on, and Shiro’s body starts swaying to the intro’s twangy guitar. Compared to most of the other acts tonight, it’s a rather sedate song, at least for now, and that’s exactly what Shiro wants to work with. He knows the importance of foreplay, after all.

              _I’m a cowboy, on a steel horse I ride, I’m wanted, dead or alive._

He gets through the first verse and chorus without removing a single inch of fabric. Instead, he moves his hips to the beat, turning his body around slow, letting his fingers slide over his shirt buttons but doing no more with them, making the crowd get just the right kind of frustrated imagining what’s beneath Shiro’s clothes, one notch below them rushing the stage and tearing them right off him.

              The song swells into the second verse. Shiro smirks at Keith, totally entranced down there in his seat, before tearing his shirt open, buttons be damned. The crowd goes wild. Shiro basks in it, bare chest puffed out, hands running over his stomach, the first dollar bills thrown with abandon onto the stage, tangible pieces of his audience’s frenzied appreciation for him and his body.

              _Sometimes I sleep, sometimes it’s not for days, the people I meet always go their separate ways_

              There was a time when he didn’t like his body, when he even hated it — the red, raw wounds and cold, lifeless arm that replaced the one he lost, the body that grew frail as it went through the surgeries and recovery. Shiro never would have thought he’d find his second chance at life on a pole, or regain his lost confidence stripping for strangers’ money, but here he is, and here he’s happy. Shiro’s good at this, and Shiro’s smokin’ hot. They know it. He knows it. Keith sure as hell knows it.

              Oh, and bless his heart, Keith looks cute as hell biting his lip like that. Sometimes Shiro has to remember that he’s performing for _everyone_ up here.

              He slides his undone shirt down off his arms, throwing it aside and spinning around to give everyone a good look as his back, scars and all, rocking his hips in figure-eights so he can let the spotlight show off the muscles he’s worked so hard for, and always seem to drive a good chunk of his audience wilder than anything else he does for the night. Keith hoots, the absolute sweetheart.

              Shiro sticks his ass out and grabs it, rolling his hips as he leads his fingers up to his belt. He unbuckles it, slips the leather out slow and steady through the loops, gathering it in his hands, bringing it together quick and even quicker apart to make it let out a sharp crack. He casts it off, a prop he has no more use for, and slides his thumbs back into the now-vacant loops, hands stationed squarely in an attention-directing V. He teases the crowd with his sly, heavy-lidded looks, the soft swipe of his tongue over his lower lip, the provocative sway of his hips, the teeny-tiny bit he pulls down his jeans, giving them just a peek of thus far uncharted skin. He gets the usual screams and chants of “Take it off!” from the audience, but when his attention falls back on Keith, his eyes wide with reverent awe like he’s gazing upon a masterwork of art, there his attention once more remains.

              It almost makes Shiro miss his most dang important cue.

              _Oh, and I ride!_

              The energy of the guitar solo mixes with the absolute pandemonium that breaks out when Shiro rips off his blue jeans in one smooth, swift movement, revealing the barely-there daisy dukes he had on beneath, near skin-tight and short enough to expose the underside of his ass.

              Foreplay’s over; it’s time for the payoff.

              He drops to his knees on the floor, grabbing the hat off his head and pulling it down to his pelvis, holding it against his cock it by the crown as he thrusts against it, his prosthetic hand in a fist up in the air, pumping to the same measured franticness as his hips. People reach out to the stage with fists full of bills. Keith has stepped up from his seat, elbows on the edge of the platform, stunned in place with his lips parted open. This is the part where Shiro’s supposed to get on the pole, just like he’s practised. As it turns out, he’s more in the mood for a little improvisation.

              Throwing the hat back on, he slinks over to the edge of the stage, and cloud of green in his periphery and Keith right in front, their eyes locked together. Shiro outstretches an arm, gestures him to come hither. Even in his daze, Keith has enough sense, and more than enough enthusiasm, to climb on up. Contrary to the regular patrons feeling sore about all the special attention Keith gets from Shiro, they’re the ones helping to push Keith up onto the stage, eager for the white-hot sparks they can only get from bringing these two together.

              It doesn’t even interrupt the flow of the show, with how easy it is for Shiro to direct Keith to where he needs him. The guitar solo’s still blaring through the speakers when Keith has his back against the stage floor with Shiro mounted atop him. Waving Keith’s hat up in the air like he’s showing off on a bull ride, Shiro holds himself up by his thighs just high enough so there’s no friction as he bucks and twists and twerks his hips against Keith’s, while Keith fills what remains of Shiro’s costume with dollar bills.

              _I been everywhere, still I’m standing tall, I’ve seen a million faces, and I’ve rocked ‘em all_

              Shiro pats his thigh, just beneath the frayed edges of his tight little shorts, and Keith catches the signal, digging his fingers into Shiro’s skin with the absolute of nerve of someone who knows he’s been given permission to get away with it. And, _Lord in Heaven,_ when Keith’s rough, work-worn hands knead into his flesh like that — Shiro swears that _these_ are the hands he wants on his ass until the end of his days.

              But all good things must come to an end, what Shiro wants be damned. The song ends, as so must his impromptu addition to the act with his guest star. And Shiro’s thankful for all the racket the crowd’s making, to remind him that he’s not alone with Keith, beneath him with his mussed up hair and a flushed face flecked with beads of sweat from the spotlights, otherwise he’s not sure what dumb thing he’d try to do next.

              “Yeehaw, pardners!” the announcer hoots over the speakers. “Let’s show our love, and our cash, for that cowboy-on-cowboy action, courtesy of Shiro!”

              Shiro grabs Keith’s hand, helping him up to his feet as he gets up to his. He lets the hat go, putting it back in its rightful place atop Keith’s head, but can’t bring himself to let go of Keith’s hand just yet. He keeps Keith at his side, not that Keith seems in any huge hurry to leave it, as he takes a bow.

              “You too, sugar,” says Shiro, turning his head to look up at him. “You ended up being half my act.”

              Keith’s bow is quick and coy, barely a bow at all, and it’s absolutely adorable. The crowd, louder than ever, seems to agree.

              “Hey, Shiro?”

              Shiro moves his ear closer. “Hm?”

              “Would you like to go out on a date?”

              They basically just pretended to fuck in front of an audience on a strip club stage, but the prospect of them going out for a coffee or a movie is what makes Shiro’s face as red as a perfectly ripe tomato. Nonetheless—

              “I’d love to, Keith.”


	3. Home on the Range

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the "sweet" part of "Hot, Sticky Sweet." Pure self-indulgent fluff is all you'll find in this chapter.
> 
> ~~Just you wait tho things might get hot and sticky later~~

              “Y’all right there, Shiro?”

              “Yeah, just... what if they don’t like me?”

              Keith laughs softly as he gives Shiro an encouraging pat on the shoulder. “Don’t be silly. They’re all gonna love you. Trust me on this.”

              Nerves aside, it’s hard not to trust him when he speaks in that voice, reassuring in both its gentleness and authority. And the early morning light on Keith’s face, softly illuminating the dusting of red along his cheekbones, bringing a shimmer to the black locks that manage to escape the shadow of his hat’s wide brim? Totally worth getting up before the crack of dawn to experience. Could convince Shiro to do anything and more.

              “Okay,” Shiro says with an exhale. “I’m ready.”

              With that, Keith undoes the latch on the coop door, flinging it open.

              “Oh, watch out for Gertrude, though,” Keith quickly warns. “She bites everyone.”

              “Wait, which one’s Gertrude—”

              Shiro gets cut off by a rushing mass of white and black and brown feathers, dispersing into individual chickens that Keith is quickly greeting individually, by name, as Shiro just tries to get a count of how many there are. One pecks at his shoes and pant leg.

              “Gertrude!” Keith hollers. “I told you to be nice! Go on, get!” He bends over to shoo her away with his hands. She skitters off to join the others, clucking and digging and poking at the grass.

              “My hero,” says Shiro. “However can I thank you?”

              “You wanna help me collect the eggs?” says Keith.

              Not the response Shiro was expecting, but definitely the one he didn’t know how much he wanted.

              “Sure.”

Shiro takes each step with overt caution as he follows Keith, who’s going through the motions with the ease of someone who’s done this hundreds, maybe thousands of times. He slows down to offer Shiro instructions and, even though there isn’t much instruction to be had, Shiro handles each egg he finds with the same attention he would a Faberge egg. It ends up meaning that for about every five eggs Keith gathers, Shiro’s responsible for one.

              They’ve gone on enough dates where they just might be dating now, Shiro thinks, and they haven’t even slept together — about the _only_ thing that happens on Shiro’s dates for the past couple of years. And, hey, there’s nothing wrong with a one-night stand, and Shiro’s certainly had his share of fun with some interesting characters before parting ways with them, but this? Something slow and cozy? Well, it’s pretty nice for a change. They’ve held hands, after Keith, face about as red as it gets in the strip club, shyly laced their fingers together. They haven’t kissed, as much as Shiro’s eager to, but he doesn’t want to push it. And, as often as Shiro has his fleeting daydreams about inviting Keith in for “coffee” after going out, he’s actually grown quite attached to that fuzzy feeling he gets after Keith drives him to his apartment and gives him a flustered hug and a kind goodbye. Most of their dates have been Keith treating him to a meal at the local diner and, Shiro can still barely believe this, one of them was spent over one strawberry milkshake with two straws. He thought that was something that only happened in nostalgic media set in the 1950s.

              And, even as Shiro’s sifting through hay to pick up eggs splattered with bird poop, he feels luckier and more spoiled than he’s ever been.

              After leaving the coop, Keith puts the eggs aside and hands Shiro a small bag filled with seeds, cracked corn, and the like. Some especially keen hens are already inching towards him, knowing what comes next.

              “Go ahead,” says Keith, gesturing at the flock.

              Shiro scoops up a handful of the mix and tosses it onto the ground in front of him, watching as the chickens bustle over and start pecking at the scattered treats. He spreads more, and more hens start budging their way in and flapping their wings at the others, giving Shiro a firsthand glance at the pecking order in action. It kind of reminds him of feeding ducks at the pond when he was a little kid, one of those simple little joys he hasn’t been able to replicate since, or at least hasn’t thought to try to.

              This guy he gave a birthday lap dance gratis ended up being full of those little joys,  offering a new one to Shiro each time they. When they part ways, Shiro’s already looking forward to the next one; he’s a little more than hooked.

              When the hens in charge have had their fill, leaving the remains to their coop-mates lower down the ladder, some of them flock over to their owner. Keith sits down on his haunches, giving the chickens scritches as they cluck and clamour for his attention.

              "Now, now, girls," chides Keith, ruffling up the breast feathers of the brown hen in front of him. "I got time for all y'all. No squabbling — I'm trying to impress someone."

              "I _am_ impressed," says Shiro. "I had no idea they'd be so affectionate."

              "Some are, some ain't." Keith scoops the same brown hen up into his arms, then stands back up. As far as Shiro can tell, she seems content to be there. "I just try and keep 'em as happy as I can."

              "You're good at it," says Shiro, cautiously going to pet the hen, calm in Keith’s grasp.

              "You think so?"

              "Yeah. I mean, just look at how happy you make me."

              Shiro's too busy keeping his guard up against a possible pecking to realize just what he said. Once he's stroking those surprisingly soft feathers and lets himself exhale when the hen seems pleased with the touch, that's when what he admitted plays back in his head. He looks at Keith, stunned and blushing furiously, his eyes pointed down at his chicken instead of meeting Shiro's. It's been years since Shiro, the same man who strips off his clothes nearly every night, has felt so vulnerable and exposed.

              "I-I'm happy," Keith stutters. "Uh, I mean, you make me happy too."

              And maybe that doesn't feel so bad.

              Shiro smiles. Keith smiles back. Shiro can feel his heart pounding close to bursting in his chest and Lord does he just want to bottle up this moment and keep it safe and whole forever.

              Keith clears his throat and sets his hen down, sending her on his way. “Uh, you must be hungry something awful, huh?” He retrieves the basket of eggs that Shiro, technically, helped him fill. “C’mon, let’s go get these eggs cleaned up, then I’ll cook ‘em for you — whatever way you like best. I can show you the rest of the farm afterwards.”

              Cute, fuzzy animals, wide open spaces, and a hot guy making him breakfast? Yeah, Shiro has a feeling Keith could keep him happy for a _long_ time.


	4. Home on the Range, Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love how much fun it is to write for this AU and how little I'm critical of myself while writing it. Yeehaw AU has freed my soul. Just hecking try to make me stop.

               "Shiro, I'd like to introduce you to the horse you'll be riding today," says Keith, giving the palomino mare at his side a pat on the neck. "Hippopotamus. Hippo for short."

               "Her name's Hippopotamus?" says Shiro, an amused grin sneaking onto his face.

               "Yeah, uh, my parents let me name her when I was… 'bout five or so?" Keith guesses, scratching at the back of his neck. "My parents wouldn't let me have a hippo, so it seemed like the next best thing. It's silly, I know."

               "No, it's okay," Shiro assures him. "I had a hamster named Speedboat. That’s way sillier."

               Sillier? Maybe. Adorable? More than Keith can comprehend.

               "How 'bout I let you two get acquainted while I tack her up for the ride?" says Keith. "She loves gettin' pet on the muzzle, by the way."

               "Thanks for the tip," Shiro says with a heart-melting smile towards Keith before turning his attention to Hippo. "Hi there, Hippopotamus," he says softly, approaching her at a leisurely pace with his hand held out. "My name's Shiro. Is it okay if I pet you?"

               Hippo sniffs Shiro's offered hand and snorts, pressing her nose into his palm. Shiro's mouth parts in awe as Hippo happily lets him rub her muzzle, her forehead, and her chin.

               "Yeah, you're a good girl," says Shiro, giving her some scritches between the ears. "A pretty girl, too. You knew that, right? Yeah, I'm sure Keith tells you all the time."

               Shiro's so good with the animals. A little shy at first, perhaps, but only for a lack of experience with farmyard animals. They're naturally drawn to him. Keith can't rightly blame 'em; he's not sure how long he's been watching Shiro become fast friends with Hippo instead of doing his job.

               Eventually Keith manages to stay focused enough to get all the necessary bits and pieces into place, giving everything a once-over before saying, "All right, all ready."

               "I think she likes me," says Shiro, stroking Hippo's neck as he nuzzles his forehead against her muzzle. Both man and horse look as happy as a pig in mud for each other’s attention.

               "'Course she does," says Keith. "Ain’t a soul on the whole farm that ain’t smitten silly with you.”

               Shiro turns his head, keeping his cheek pressed against Hippo as his hand slows. “Not one, huh?”

               Yup. Not a single one.

               Keith takes every bit of his self-control to distract himself from that beautiful smile that he just wants to smother with his own mouth, grabbing a mounting block to set down beside Hippo. “Here, I’ll help you up,” he says, gesturing Shiro over. “Then you’ll be all good and ready to ride me– _me horse_ ,” he quickly, painfully tries to correct. “ _My_ horse.”

               The knowing smirk Shiro gives him makes his temperature rise but, thankfully, Shiro leaves it at that, instead making a show of holding his hand out, chin up, awaiting Keith’s assistance. It works. Keith chuckles as he takes Shiro’s hand and leads him up the steps. Shiro pauses at the top, one tentative hand hovering over the saddle, leaning over to see the stirrup on the opposite side.

               “Uh, wait, how do I do this?”

               Keith guides him patiently through each step, reaching out to keep him steady as he slips one foot into the nearest stirrup, reminding himself not to stare too hard at Shiro’s ass because his inattention could lead to the guy he likes falling off a horse and breaking something and Keith definitely sees enough of the goods every Friday night but goddamn does his butt look amazing in those tight jeans as he throws his leg in an arc over the saddle and it reminds Keith far too vividly of Shiro right before he’s grinding on Keith’s lap in the club and – okay, good, Shiro’s set and steady in the saddle and Keith can breathe again.

               “Did I do okay?” asks Shiro.

               “Perfect,” says Keith, unconsciously tugging at his shirt collar.

               After getting the go-ahead from Shiro, Keith gathers up the lead connected to Hippo’s harness, and leads her into a slow walk out into the open fields, keeping up the pace by her side.

               A few steps into the ride, Keith looks up at Shiro. He looks… not _terrified_ , exactly – more like a kid on a ride at the county fair for the first time, not sure what to expect now that the gears are chugging and the ride’s starting to move. “You okay up there, Shiro?”

               “Yeah,” says Shiro, nodding. “Totally.”

               “You’re stiff as a board,” Keith says, trying to help more than chastise. “Relax a bit more. Look forward so you’re not hunching over so much… yeah, there you go. Keep yourself in the centre of the saddle, you don’t wanna start leaning over to one side. You gotta use your core muscles, and I know you got ‘em, Shiro.”

               Shiro laughs, a little nervously. “There’s more to this than I thought.” He straightens up his back, experimenting with how to follow Keith’s instructions. “Just thought you… sit and the horse goes, I guess?”

               “Nope.” Keith shakes his head. “Rider’s gotta put in as much effort as the horse.”

               Shiro worries at his lip. “You, uh… you sure I’m cut out for this?”

               “ _Shiro_ ,” – and this time Keith means to chastise – “I’ve seen you spin around a pole while doing the splits, keep spinnin’ with your hands free, then land perfectly on the highest stiletto heels I’ve ever seen _anyone_ wear.” And boy did Keith wish he had more dollar bills for Shiro’s thong that night. “You’ll get the hang of this in no time.”

               Shiro, of course, doesn’t immediately master all the intricacies of the equestrian arts just with Keith’s earnest encouragement, but he does catch onto the basics quickly – enough to make the tense, frozen solid rider he was at the beginning seem like a far-off memory. His posture’s good, and he’s learning to move with Hippo instead of rigidly resisting the way her body shifts as she walks forward. Keith’s mighty proud of him. Sure, he has Hippo moving roughly one step above standing still, but that ain’t gonna take away any of his pride for Shiro’s accomplishments.

               The ride shifts into a more relaxed rhythm, where Keith doesn’t have to keep interjecting to correct bad behaviours before they become bad habits. The two fall into conversation, casual and comfortable, with the steady, lulling beat of horse hooves against the dirt and grass.

               “Have you always wanted to be a farmer?” asks Shiro when they’re at the far fence of Keith’s land, looking at Keith’s house in the distance.

               “Yeah.” Keith nods. “Born and raised here, spent as much time out in the fields or the barns with my ma and pa as I did at school, I reckon. I’ve imagined I’d grow up to do the same as them for… pretty much all my life, I’d say. Uh, ‘cept for the couple months I wanted to be a firetruck.”

               “Aw, you wanted to be a fireman?”

               “No, I wanted to be the _truck_ ,” Keith corrects, embarrassed that he has to. “And don’t ask me how I thought that worked, ‘cause I sure as hell have no clue to this day.” He watches Shiro laugh, his face bright and full of joy, and is happy that at least he’s getting some fun out of Keith’s deeply misguided childhood dreams. “What about you?” asks Keith. “What’d you wanna be when you were a kid?”

               “Hmm, everything?” Shiro says, a little sheepishly. “Astronaut, superhero, pilot, firefighter.” He swiftly adds, “ _Not_ a truck.”

               “All right, all right,” Keith sighs. “I deserve that.”

               “By the time I got to college, I still didn’t know what I wanted to do,” Shiro continues, a slower pace to his words, like he’s gathering his thoughts aloud. “I ended up with two years of credits from classes so all over the place I couldn’t do much with them, and two years of college debt to boot.”

               Keith, his livestock management degree still basically hot off the presses, winces. Even with his parents’ help, he’s going to have to sell a lot of eggs before that gets paid off completely.

               “So I enlisted, thought it’d at least pay off the bills, give me time to figure stuff out, and I’d save up for going back to school,” says Shiro. “Once I was through with training, when I had a team, people to look out for, real responsibilities, I thought… maybe _this_ was what I could do.” His eyes lower, lingering on his prosthetic arm. He frowns. “Didn’t work out, obviously.”

               “Didn’t mean to pry,” says Keith apologetically. “We can change the subject.”

               Shiro just shakes his head. “It’s all right. I’ve come to terms with it. Everything probably happens for a reason.”

               “You think so?”

               “I think I do,” Shiro says contemplatively. “I mean, I don’t want to pretend the bad stuff in my life wasn’t bad, but… it helps to think that, if it hadn’t happened, I wouldn’t be here, with all the great people in this town, and I never would’ve found the jobs I love to do, and I wouldn’t be riding a horse named Hippopotamus right here and now.” He looks down at Keith, with a smile so wide it carves cute little wrinkles in the corner of his bright-as-starlight eyes. “I wouldn’t be here with you, Keith.”

               Keith takes a moment to gather his words, wanting to say this right, exactly as his heart means it to be said.

               “For what it’s worth, Shiro,” he begins. “I wish the road had been easier on you, but there ain’t a day I’m not thankful that it led you here.”

               Shiro chuckles. “It’s worth a lot. Thank you.”

               Once they make their way back to the stables, Keith helps Shiro off the horse, guiding him step by step just as he did to get him on her. Shiro’s shaky as he gets out of the stirrups.

               “Okay, ow, wow,” he says, sounding winded, “I am way more sore than I thought.”

               “Careful, careful,” Keith cautions, one calming hand on Hippo’s shoulder and another floating ready by Shiro. “I gotcha, Shiro.”

               He does, and it’s a good thing he does, because he catches Shiro as he stumbles off Hippo and onto the ground. Keith’s hand’s latch onto Shiro’s waist like magnets to iron mid-fall, supporting Shiro as he gets his bearings back on his own two feet instead of Hippo’s four.

               “Y’all right there?” Keith asks, sounding more concerned than is probably really warranted.

               “Yeah, I’m fine,” says Shiro, realigning himself slightly so he’s facing Keith. “No need to worry about me.”

               “Good,” Keith says with a sigh. “Good.”

               The moment is hushed, save for the intermittent sounds of the other horses in the stable and the other animals further away. Their eyes meet, as Keith’s hands remain on Shiro’s waist. Thinking about taking them away just makes it harder to do, and so they still remain.

“I don’t want to pressure you,” says Shiro, “but this is a great opportunity to kiss me.”

Keith spends a grand total of maybe two seconds making sure he heard what he just heard before rushing like a charging bull to push his lips against Shiro’s. He is absolutely sure of what he heard when Shiro kisses him back, his hand at Keith’s nape, combed into his hair, keeping him in place as he deepens the kiss. His lips are dry, chapped from his time in the afternoon heat, but Keith can’t imagine anything feeling as perfect as this, right now. It leaves him breathless and lightheaded. He never wants this kiss to end.

Then a strong nudge at his hip sets Keith off balance, bringing Shiro with him. He manages to keep them both on their feet, even as Hippo keeps snuffling at his pockets.

“Ah, my bad.” He pulls a carrot out of his pocket and holds it out for Hippo to eat. “Sorry about that, girl.”

The apology seems accepted as Hippo happily, and promptly, munches away at her treat. Shiro, holding back a laugh, gives her a few soft pets on the top of her lowered head.

“I had a great time,” says Shiro, blushing and gorgeous. “We have to do this again.”

“The horse riding,” says Keith, “or the making out?”

Shiro gives him another kiss, this one a quick peck that leaves Keith dying for more. “Both,” he says.

               Words fail Keith. The big, dumb smile on his face seems to say more than enough, though.

               In the moments that follow, Keith feels like he’s walking on air doing something as simple as teaching Shiro how to remove Hippo’s riding gear and give her a good grooming.

               “So, since you’re giving me free horseback riding lessons,” says Shiro, as he works a wide-bristled comb through Hippo’s mane, just like Keith showed him, “does that mean I should give you pole dancing lessons?”

               “I – w-what?”

               “All that farm work’s given you the body for it. All you’d need to do is learn some moves, and you wouldn’t be able to keep the dollar bills out of your undies.”

               “Oh, whoa, no, I don’t have the guts to do that in front of a crowd.”

               “Hmm. Maybe we could do it real late, when everyone else is already gone,” says Shiro, conspiratorially lowering his voice, like there’s any other human around to hear him even at full volume. “Just you and me. Private one-on-one lessons. I’d really like to see my boyfriend try it out.”

               Keith, willing to do just about anything to keep this man happy, and to keep getting to kiss him, decides to strongly consider it.


	5. Fools Rush In

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The original plan was for things to get hot and sticky in this chapter, but apparently sweet was what I wanted, so sweet is what y'all get.
> 
> Many thanks and so much love to [ColieB](https://archiveofourown.org/users/colieb2183/pseuds/colieb2183) for being an absolute treasure of a beta reader, for giving me the motivation to finish this and the time to make it better. <3

“No peeking now, darlin’.”

           “I’m not!” Shiro insists with a pout, one that he’s not sure if Keith can even see, because he _really_ isn’t peeking.

           He isn’t! He has one hand over his eyes, which are shut in the first place. His other hand rests in Keith’s hold as he’s led, slowly and carefully, over the slightly uneven ground. He knows they’re still on the farm, as they couldn’t have gone far from the porch where Keith began this little trip, but Shiro is just bubbly with anticipation for whatever the heck Keith’s up to.

           “Okay,” says Keith about a dozen steps later, stilling Shiro with a steady hand on his arm. “You can look now.”

           Shiro does and sees an unlit campfire pit circled by rocks and firewood, illuminated by twilight’s dwindling warmth over the horizon. Nearby, a red gingham blanket is spread out on the ground. And on top of the blanket: a guitar, an assortment of pillows, a thermos, and a bona fide, as classic as you can possibly imagine, wicker picnic basket.

           “Keith,” Shiro gasps, clasping a hand over his mouth, muffling his flustered, “Oh my gosh, _Keith._ ”

           “Hope that means you like it,” Keith chuckles.

           “What’s the occasion?”

           Keith shrugs, smiling sweetly. “Do we need one? Go ahead and make yourself comfortable while I get the fire goin’,” he says, nudging Shiro towards the blanket. “Supposed to get a bit chilly tonight, don’t wanna get caught out here without it.”

           Shiro, feeling like a love interest in a sugary sweet music video, takes a seat, leaning on some cushions as he watches Keith start the fire. Keith does it effortlessly, going from lighting up some tinder with a match to having a warm, crackling campfire within minutes. As the earthy scent of the wood burns out into the air, distant, comforting memories of family trips and summer camps come to Shiro’s mind. It evokes a similar sense of companionship that he feels now, as Keith sits down beside him; but he knows with a tender warmth and a tingle of excitement in his chest, that none of those memories contain the intimacy of this memory-to-be.

           “How about some coffee?” offers Keith, picking up the thermos. “A little cream, a little sugar, just the way you like it.”

           “Sure,” says Shiro, sufficiently tempted. He takes the mug Keith holds out for him, holding it steady as Keith pours the steaming hot coffee into it, before serving some for himself and putting the thermos aside. Shiro holds the cup in front of his mouth and purses his lips to blow gentle ripples across the surface of the dark brown brew before taking a cautious sip. It’s rich and dark, the smidge of cream taking just the right amount of an edge off the bitterness, the amount of sugar enough to add a pleasant sweetness without taking away from the flavor.

           “It _is_ just the way I like it,” he tells Keith, before taking another sip. His eyes remain on Keith, catching that proud look of accomplishment on his boyfriend’s face, as well as the cute little blush on his cheeks.

           Keith’s had the time to learn how Shiro likes his coffee, sure. He’s had the dozens of dates at the diner to watch how Shiro put in his cream and sugar. He’s had months of picking up Shiro after a Saturday night shift at the club, handing him a coffee from the nearby shop as he buckles himself in the passenger seat. He’s even had enough mornings (Shiro’s lost count) of waking up before Shiro, brewing a pot, and bringing a cup prepared to Shiro’s taste back to him in bed – something that, paired with the soft kiss and “mornin’, sweet pea” Keith always gives him, makes the experience of being dragged back into the waking world a lot more pleasant.

           It also means Shiro doesn’t have to struggle to get out of bed to get his morning coffee, because good lord does this boy leave him _sore_ in the wake of their nights together.

           They drink their coffee without haste, sliding into a meandering conversation about nothing in particular, all comfy and casual. That’s how their relationship feels to Shiro most of the time, comfy and casual, like a nice pair of worn-in pants you slip into at the end of the day. There’s the other side of their relationship, of course. The thing that ostensibly got their relationship going in the first place: fierce, raw sexual attraction, something that’s become rapidly more relevant since, after months of chaste courtship, they enthusiastically gave in to desires planted during that very first lap dance. That’s more like slipping into… leather pants, Shiro supposes. The kind at work that have the ass cut out of them, probably.

           Their relationship is quickly changing. It’s more than romance now, more than closeness, more than sex, more than just those two pairs of pants. Things are getting serious. There are times when Shiro can’t help but wonder about where this is going. What does Keith really want out of this? What does _Shiro_ really want out of this? He worries sometimes, that he’s just a stripper who’s dating way out of his league, a decent – no, a great guy, one who maybe deserves someone a little more upstanding, someone whose past isn’t all mucked up and muddled like his is.

           Worries like that are the furthest thing from Shiro’s mind while they’re here together, the campfire and the stars above the only lights to be seen, as they chat and kiss and feed each other the finger foods Keith’s packed and laugh at jokes so hard they snort and don’t care that they do.

           Keith starts tuning his guitar once Shiro’s pleasantly sated on morsels of fruit and sweets, making tiny adjustments to the pegs in between plucking at the strings. Shiro flips over onto to his stomach, elbows pressed down into a pillow beneath his, his head tilted against a hand against his cheek. Keith plays a couple of, what are in his opinion, campfire staples, American Pie and Sweet Caroline and Wonderwall. And, man, either Keith has an entirely too beautiful voice or Shiro is smitten stupid because his first reaction to _yet another_ Wonderwall cover doesn’t immediately have him groaning.

Nonetheless, perhaps in a self-aware apology for the overdone song, he follows it up with an improvised performance of Toxic. Shiro nearly screams when he realizes what Keith’s singing, before joining in on the singing himself on one of his pole dancing staples, filling in the blanks in the lyrics that Keith can’t seem to figure out. The song ends up dissolving into gleeful laughter before getting through the second verse.

           “Babe, how do you not know the words!?” Shiro demands, through a partially muffled giggle. “You’ve seen me dance to this, like, a hundred times by now!”

           “I ain’t ever focusing on the lyrics when you’re dancing!” says Keith, through a decidedly more sheepish laugh, though his words are unquestionably insistent. “Got any requests?” he asks, once their shared laughter subsides, turning his head to his adoring audience of one.

           “Hmm, sing a song that makes you think of me,” Shiro suggests. “Preferably one you know all the words to.”

           Shiro finds himself studying the look in Keith’s face as he thinks. The subtle ways it changes. The slight movements of his brow and lip. The way his eyes look off into the distance before returning to Shiro. The way they smile at him along with soft curve of his mouth.

           “All right,” he says softly, holding his guitar back in position to play.

           Keith plucks at the strings, conjuring up a slow, almost lulling tune from them. Shiro doesn’t recognize it from the outset, scrunching up his nose as he tries to guess. Somehow, in the same instant, it hits him like a ray of warm, warm sunlight and a bucket of spine-tinglingly cold water when Keith starts to sing.

_Wise men say only fools rush in, but I can’t help falling in love with you_

The back of Shiro’s hand brushes over his awestruck mouth, one knuckle pressed up against his lips, feeling the force of his breath as it’s forced out of his lungs.

_Shall I stay, would it be a sin, if I can’t help falling in love with you?_

Love, that word neither of them has said, that subject neither of them has broached, that feeling Shiro wondered if he’d felt when Keith keeps visiting and supporting his work, or sending him selfies with his animals “in case he needs a smile” or, that first night when Keith was red-faced and stuttering as he asked, sweet as a peach, “Does that feel good? Can I do it better?”. Love, that thing that Keith is singing about to Shiro by a campfire on a starry night.

Shiro has been in love for months, he realizes.

_Like a river flows surely to the sea, darling so it goes – some things are meant to be_

His voice is rich and clear, as Shiro already knows to expect. But when they carry the words they do now, Shiro’s heart is filled near to bursting with that voice. If that weren’t enough, his heart must also fare with the softness of Keith’s lashes, his eyes turned down at his playing, the shape of lips Shiro knows to be so kissable as they shift with the lyrics. Shiro swears his own face must be hotter than the fire illuminating this sublime moment, but it’s nothing compared to the heat that rushes all the way to his fingertips and toes as, in the final lines of the song, Keith turns to look right at him.

_Take my hand, take my whole life too, for I can’t help falling in love with you_

Shiro, with sudden shyness he didn’t know he could feel, finds himself for a second staring down at the blanket beneath him. He quickly looks back up, not wanting to miss another instant.

_For I can’t help falling in love with you_

The slightest tremble takes ahold in Keith’s voice as the song closes out. It doesn’t take away from the moment’s perfection; it is part of it, as much as the campfire, as much as the night sky, as much as the lingering taste of coffee on Shiro’s tongue.

The blanket rustles as Shiro lifts himself up and drags his knees forward to close the distance between him and Keith. With one hand brushed against the scar on Keith’s cheek, Shiro practically lunges to bring their lips together, kissing into Keith all the thoughts and emotions and feelings that would take too many words to express.

Maybe. Maybe not.

“I love you,” Shiro tells him, with words formed on tingling lips.

“I love you too,” Keith says without hesitation, giving Shiro a quick peck on the tip of his nose. “Uh, in case you couldn’t tell,” he adds, patting his guitar.

Shiro rests his forehead against Keith and lets out a low laugh. “I could tell.”

The hand Keith used to pluck out his confession slips along the short, soft hairs at Shiro’s neck, until his fingers settle gently at his nape. They breathe in the same air, the same woody smoke, and the kiss that follows makes it feels warm and right and real.

 

          The night goes on. Beside the still-crackling fire, Keith’s on his back, his arm around Shiro snuggled up against his side, beneath a thick flannel blanket, eyes turned skyward. Neither of them know the constellations. So instead of pointing them out, they’ve simply been watching them twinkle from an incomprehensible distance away and an incomprehensible distance apart from each other, as the two of them are nestled warm and drowsy together.

           “You still awake?” Keith asks, some time later.

           “Mmhmm,” Shiro mumbles, unconvincingly.

           Keith chuckles, a tinge of sleep in his voice all the same. “C’mon, we should finish up here.”

           “I love it here,” says Shiro sluggishly, nuzzling his cheek against Keith’s chest, holding Keith tighter when he tries to move away even a little bit.

           “Well, I’m glad,” says Keith. “But it ain’t too smart to sleep all night out in the field.”

           “Not just here,” Shiro mumbles. “The farm, the farmhouse, you… Wish I could stay forever.”

           There’s a pause, one long enough that Shiro can feel his consciousness drifting out of his grasp.

           “Then stay, Shiro.”

           With a spark that startles his brain away from slumber, Shiro blinks the bleariness from his eyes and his consciousness. He looks up at Keith, at the low-lit look of adoration on Keith’s face, as he feels Keith’s hand caressing his arm in aimless, perhaps anxious patterns.

           “Move in with me?” asks Keith.

           Shiro is slow to respond, but not because he doesn’t know his answer, no – he knows his answer without a doubt. He just didn’t know until that moment how much he wanted to hear the question.

And when he does respond, the joy in Keith’s face tells Shiro just how much Keith wanted to hear that answer.


End file.
